


Greens and Yellows

by nfra3711



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:50:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4231134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nfra3711/pseuds/nfra3711
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing someone too much can bring you out of your character, and turn your thoughts into a cheesy mess. Short sequel to Flower Bud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greens and Yellows

Being hopeful wasn’t a crime.

Or so he had told himself, repeatedly, as his fingers clutched into the piece of enveloped letter. There was a strange, unexplainable mixture of emotions bundling around every nerve of his body, humming then buzzing as if they were waiting for an inevitable disaster. It had been hard enough accepting his shameful defeat—even harder succumbing to the bitter, bitter fact that he had failed- let himself, let everyone down, dragging those with undoubtable levels of faith in him down the sewer with him. By luck perhaps he could start anew, next year, turning over into a clean page with nothing written on it; make up for the unkept promises he had made both to himself and those who believed in him.

But of course, life wasn’t a mere scrapbook waiting to be filled in. The overwhelming guilt and regrets swelling inside him weren’t colored papers or glitters or bright neon pens. If only it was that simple.

But as low as he had tumbled over, it still wasn’t a crime for him to hope.

He shifted on his seat, the frequent slight bumps and the low sounds of the engine of the bus not bothering him. His stomach had started to make those tiny flips again- it kept doing that since that morning. The other passengers—all dressed in mustard yellow just as he was, would ask him if he was feeling alright, and every time he’d reply with a half-hearted nod and an ‘ _I’m fine’_.

And he was, ignoring the thumps inside his head and the accelerated rate of his heart beat, at least. He told himself that it was some form of cold feet. He was going to play again, against old and new opponents alike, some worthy of his time and some not. It was just normal to feel that intense nervousness, to grip on a piece of paper as if it beared grim news. He was going to prove himself, this time, and he wasn’t going to let everyone in that shuttle down, _this time_.

… Except, he knew that wasn’t the cause of the knots forming in his guts.

When the bus finally stopped there were already a few more of them parked in the lot, with small groups of people scattered around, their matching jerseys made them look like bright patches of color from afar.

He was the first to get off the bus, and stood there, waiting for his team to re-assemble themselves. He glanced around, _checking the grounds_ , he called it, despite fully knowing what, or rather, _who_ exactly that he was looking for.

Amiss. He could practically hear his hopes misting away, as if he was a little kid once again, being told for the very first time that Santa wasn’t real. The annoying knots in his stomach tightened, and he had been close, so close from being angry- if not for the one part of him that had expected this would happen; the one, miserable side of him that was sick of believing in false hopes.

“Yukimura,” a hand landed on his shoulder, and he hoped his face hadn’t turned red. “Let’s go.”

Yukimura nodded, his hand inside his jersey’s pocket crumpling the paper he had been desperately clutching onto the entire time and shoved it deeper, as if his pocket had magically transformed into a miniature black hole.

_It wouldn’t matter_. He told himself, repeatedly. Once he was back in the courts, the troubling thoughts would only wither away, like the seasons changing, and then he would wonder why it had bothered him so much to begin with.

They followed the other teams towards what seemed to be the main gate, heads held high ready to face whatever was waiting for them across it (perhaps some of them would later realize, that they hadn’t yet let their imaginations run free).

He then could hear the familiar sound of a bus’ engine halting somewhere on his back, followed by a hasty, almost frenetic shuffling and mumbling of its passengers trying to get themselves out.

“Hah! See?” One of the newly arrived batch of people spoke out, a hint of cocky pride in his voice. “I told you we’d make it on time!”

Some more grumbling. Not that Yukimura cared.

He stopped to care, though, when the next person’s voice rang in his ears, louder than it should have.

“We would’ve saved an hour if you didn’t forget to set your alarm, Kenya.”

God, how he hated it- the pitter pattering of his own heart and the voices that abruptly started screaming inside his head. That was fast—embarrassingly too fast. And it was caused by one, mere sentence.

“Who’d wanna come an entire hour early?! Like some chap getting dumped on a date!”

“ _Ara_ , that is exactly why you’ve never scored yourself a date, Ken~ya.” Another voice chimed in.

“I don’t wanna hear that from you out of all people!”

“Well, well, keep it peaceful, yes?” Yet another voice. “We should get going, they’re all there.”

Yukimura thought of different cases of ‘what-ifs’. What if he turned around now and stared intently at the person whom he knew was standing right in the center of that group, color coded green and yellows?  What if he called out to him, and waved to him, or what if he batted him the hopeful little boy look he had been practicing in front of the mirror for no reason whatsoever? Or what if he cast away all of his remaining dignity, and ran over to him and threw himself right into the other boy’s arms?

They all seemed plausible, and Yukimura probably wouldn’t mind throwing away some self-image to get rid of the heart thumps or the chunk that felt like it was blocking his throat or the heat spreading across his face that almost ensured him it was going to explode.

In the end he just stood there, barely listening to the half muted concerns coming from his team mates. He needed to get his act together, because it wasn’t like the Child of God to be so _goddamn_ flustered.

A cloud of greens and yellows went past him, and as if his eyes were trained to catch those and only exactly those shades of colors, he looked up.

For a single brief moment he found himself gazing into warm hues that almost immediately sway him off his feet; a gentle smile, and a mesmerizing visual of the breeze brushing against soft blond locks.

For a moment he had momentarily tuned out the ear piercing scream coming from his vice captain, who had the bespectacled genius clinging into his arm as if there was no tomorrow, or the loud ‘ _where’s koshimaeeeeee_ ’ drumming into the air over and over again, or that his most troublesome, rat-tailed team member was nowhere to be seen, or that his junior ace was already attempting murder with a couple of tennis balls.

The blond had long looked away, was then occupied, haunting his first year member with nightmares about poisons and other half-baked lies.

Yukimura paid no mind, because he knew the other felt what he did.

_Now_ , he was ready to face whatever was waiting for him across that gate.


End file.
